


Silver Wings

by movssee



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, More Pairings to Come - Freeform, Slow Burn, ambiguous reincarnation au, ambivalence to friends, friends to mystery, i'll be adding character tags as they make more appearances, no beta because we're tough cookies, prom is a painter, pryna/tiny is prom's dog, she is energy, undecided endgame but will be either of the two listed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-11-09 03:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11096421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/movssee/pseuds/movssee
Summary: As an act of desperation a band of soldiers embarked on a journey to strike a decisive blow against Niflheim's expansion and to defend their home; they failed, and they never returned to see Insomnia fall.Fast forward a few hundred years and Prompto's trying to get his foot in the door in the world of art, and just when he thinks he has a chance, his life goes from zero to sixty in a singleweird ass dayall thanks to aface.Somehow they're connected; Prompto's really not sure.  He just knows he's not ready for this shit.





	1. Weird Ass Day

When he paints, he paints in blues and silvers, golds and blacks.

When he paints, he paints fantastical snapshots, scenes from epics and tales.

When he paints, he paints with his entirety, so consumed that while time dies, that the work takes a life of its own.

When he paints, he paints those same set of eyes over and over again.

This time, as usual, they’re staring at something far beyond the canvas, though now they’re furrowed along the strong ridge, and the small strokes of his brush along them  only strengthen them - nevermind the smudges of blue long dried upon his own and flecked on the frames of his glasses.  As he steps back he smears some across his nose, this time black, as he attempts to quell a sneeze.

The eyes are defiant he notes, the newest layer of blue on them glistening and drying still, and though they stare past the canvas, they also reach beyond him and with lips set into a deep frown.  Whatever’s holding his attention, Prompto’s decided, he never really wants to know, not when he has traced lines of delight across those features before; gods, how they can shine like the sun, and how the blue of those eyes can play like the lap of waves upon a summer’s shore.  But whatever this is draws forth his ire, has the wet paint of his eyes freezing and steeling.

Perhaps it has something to do with the person who’s supposed to be alongside him, who’s always supposed to be at his side, but whoever this person is has long been nothing more than uncertain pencil lines on an expanse of unfinished white.  They’re drawn, erased, smudged, into something of a vague figure of circles and cylinders, but nothing ever more.  Whoever this is has long eluded him as tendrils of smoke Prompto’s been unable to grasp, though there exists the ongoing crackle, the warmth of this person, that swells where the other is brought to life on canvas after canvas, sheet after sheet, and it’s a sensation that never quite leaves.

But Prompto’s okay with that he’s realized long ago, and he reaffirms with a reach and small stroke over the brow once more, not that it needs it.  No, he simply and inexplicably needs to smooth out that expression and wipe him free of his troubles.

It keeps him company.

Not that his dog doesn’t as she paws against the door with a whine.   _ Probably wants a walk before lunch _ , and truth be told his eyes and hands are beginning to protest.   _ Or attention _ , he acquiesces as he rubs at those aching and cramping joints.  Yet after an incident involving a hyperactive and overly curious puppy, she’s since been banished from his workroom.

He’ll kindly keep a repeat from the favor of the stars for as long as he can.

“Just a sec, Tiny!” he calls, even if it does nothing more than wind her up a bit more; another whine, longer, higher, and louder, pierces through the door.  If she really has to pee, best not keep her waiting.  He dunks his brushes in his cup of water, but he’ll have to finish cleaning once he returns; the paint’s nearly gone on his palette as it is and he’s long closed up his paints, so he’s not greatly concerned.  Instead he just needs to grab his phone, wherever he left it amid his chaos (there it is), tuck it in his pocket, and much to Tiny’s bounding delight he emerges and stops by the bathroom quick.

Paint washed off, or as much as it could be, dog leashed, and hands shoved into his pockets for whatever heat he can salvage, they slip from the apartment and into the cool morning fall.

It’s quiet out, though he supposes that’s to be expected of an average Thursday morning, and he doesn’t mind it.  There’s less weaving between people on a too small sidewalk, less shouts down a street, and less chaos in the park - or, in other words, less shit for Tiny to get into and less people to disturb as she burns off her endless supply of energy.

Until they reach the park, however, she trots dutifully alongside him, and when he does release her, she bounds off and away, only to sprint back to him.  Around his legs she zips as he continues along the path, yanking a laugh from him as she would the leash, and off she runs again.  He can only hope this will tire her out enough for a calmer evening, as much as he adores her antics, but an energetic and cooped up dog makes for hyped up nerves.

And a poor apartment.

Gods, he isn’t ready for the exposition later, but _ the sooner it’s done the sooner it’s done _ , and it’s a mantra repeating his head over the past week; Prompto’s not entirely sure it has any meaning left, but there’s something about the noise of it that’s soothing anyway.  Just make a few pleasantries, connect with a few potential buyers and commissioners, network a bit, and get his name out there a bit more.  He swallows, hunches his shoulders to protect his neck against the cold, and he continues to track Tiny as a scent seems to catch her nose.  She’s since stilled with her snout pressed to the browning grass.

So he leaves the path for the drying leaves crunching beneath his feet.  “Watcha find, Tiny?  Was a squirrel there?”  Though she seems to simply ignore him as she continues to sniff away, taking a step or two to follow whatever it was.  Secret-keeping dog.  “Oh!  Maybe a rabbit!  Those are pretty cute, too, you know!”

Her head snaps up.  Her tail begins to wag in the slightest as he approaches, and no sooner is he by her than off she darts again, though the hint of playfulness in her leaps is gone.  She’s driven, going, and Prompto has no choice but to take off after her.  Even despite his runs, with her or without, he’s nowhere near as quick as she is, but if he can keep her within earshot and sight.

“ _ Tiny _ !”

It does nothing to deter her.  Shit, shit, gods dammit, she’s going.  As much as he loves her, no wonder he found her on the streets.  Ran away from her mom or owner or something, even though he did try to find one.

So it isn’t like he  _ didn’t try _ .

“ _ Hey, Tiny _ !  Come here, girl!”

And it doesn’t register, but when she does finally slow to a trot and then a stop, it’s before some  _ hulk of a guy _ who’s definitely underdressed for this weather and Prompto really doesn’t want to have a confrontation with because his dog got overexcited.  There’s another with him who’s  _ not a hulk of a guy _ who’s overdressed, coat wrapped tight and hat pulled down around his ears; he, Prompto decides, is less intimidating.  Much to his relief, though, they don’t seem to mind, rather  _ hulk _ crouches to pat her head.   _ Maybe if you combined them they’d make a normal human _ , he ponders as he the thuds to a halt.

“Hey, look, I’m so sorry about her,” he pants, though he’s suddenly grateful for his morning runs; he could sound a lot more out of breath, and what a great impression that would make nevermind  _ Tiny _ .  “She usually doesn’t do this.  I mean, yeah, she’s a bundle of energy sometimes, but she usually does her own thing.  Just runs around until she’s tired.”   _ Hulk _ blinks up to him, and it’s then that Prompto realizes that if he weren’t already petting his dog, he wouldn’t just be intimidated by this man - he’d be downright terrified.  Still he notes to himself not to cross him, because he could snap him like a toothpick - not that he really wants to think about that - and that scar only confirms that he would.   _ Remember, Prom, he’s petting Tiny.  What more of a soft spot could you ask for _ ?

So he rocks on the balls of his feet as if he can just roll that thought right out of his head, fat chance, and looks to  _ not hulk _ .  It’s he, though, that unnerves Prompto most, and it feels as though he’s being shoved into the park’s pond.  Cold.  Or is it hot?  Something, something as he’s sure he’s paling, as any and all words die on his tongue.  While he’d been approaching the beanie had covered his hair, and it’s a sea of black - like the depths of the ocean in those documentaries - but those eyes.

There’s a flat blue staring back.

Blue startlingly close to the hues he’s mixed innumerable times until he got it  _ right _ .

Blue that’s carefully devoid of any of the emotions he’s painstakingly recreated.

Blue that he knows the right proportions of white and black to and sometimes, rarely, a hint of red.

Blue that he swears he’s going to drown in if he doesn’t recollect himself and the situation at hand.

Right, because this is purely happenstance.  Nevermind that  _ he’s painted this face more times than he has space for and in more scenes than a book _ , and nevermind that  _ the part of him so attached to his own dream guy wants nothing more than to reach out to  _ him.

Just coincidence; he can deal with that.  There are how many people in Eos after all, and one’s sure to look similar to his  _ dream guy _ .

“You know, uhhh, running around and smelling stuff.  Usual dog business.”  He’s repeating himself now, he’s not making any sense, and naturally it makes the  _ perfect save _ .

Of course not.

“Usual dog business,” mutters  _ not hulk who looks creepily like his dream guy _ , and he seems entirely unfazed by the internal crisis within Prompto.  Of course, why would he be?  This is purely  _ happenstance _ .

“Kid, it’s no big deal.  This one used to have one a while back who was a handful, and I figure any dog is an improvement from there.”   _ Hulk _ responds and prompts a frown from  _ not hulk _ , though there’s something about the teasing look that Prompto can’t quite decipher - likely from their existing relationship - but it seems to harden that frown even further.

It only lessen when he rolls his eyes.  “She wasn’t  _ that bad _ , and I liked her.  Just because she peed in your shoes once -”

“More than once.”   _ Hulk’s  _ voice is just as strong interjecting as he looks.

“You had that coming.”

_ Hulk _ lets out a gruff chuckle, not unkind, and returns his attention to Prompto.  “Anyway, ignoring princess over here ( _ hey _ ), she’s a really nice dog.  What’s her name?”

Prompto blinks at him, because what else is any rational and socially adept person supposed to do in this situation?  “Oh, uh, Tiny.”  He hears a snort from  _ dream guy slash not hulk _ who he decidedly ignores (if he’s pointedly keeping his attention away from him and how creepy this is, then all the better).  “Kind of a lame name, I know, but I found her as a puppy on the street, so she was really small, and I couldn’t keep calling her  _ dog _ as I tried to find her owner, right?  So I called her  _ Tiny _ as a sort of temporary name, and she started responding to it, and it just kinda stuck from there.  Not really tiny anymore, huh?”

“Nah.”  The chuckle rumbles into a low laugh, and Prompto finds himself easing his way from intimidated by this guy to liking him already.  “But you could have found yourself one with Great Dane in her and ended up with a dog bigger than you are.”

At that Prompto laughs.  “Yeah, no, don’t think a dog  _ that big _ would fit in my apartment, big guy.  She’s already a hazard as it is.  Had to close off my work space when she was a  _ puppy _ because she kept destroying things  She doesn’t like it, but it has to be done if she wants kibble.”

“I thought you said she normally doesn’t do this, implying that she’s actually a well behaved dog.”  It’s in kind hearted jest, that much Prompto’s well aware, but a blush creeps up his neck and cheeks at that; it isn’t like he straight up lied.  She’s usually better than coercing random strangers for attention even if she has a history of devastating his workshop, and he’s opening his mouth to contest just that when he’s beaten to the punch.

“I just got the spot, and he said he’ll meet us there in fifteen if you’re done losing your shit over a dog,” interjects  _ not hulk _ , and Prompto can swear he can hear the nonverbal  _ that’s obviously not as cute as mine was _ \- or so he likes to think.

“Okay.  Tell him we’ll meet him there.”  With a final pat to her head  _ hulk _ rises to his feet and fairly gracefully for his size, and Tiny stares after him to protest the end of the petting session.   _ Hulk _ extends a hand to Prompto, one he takes in a firm shake, and the other nods.  “Pleasure meeting you and Tiny.  What did you say your name was?”

“He didn’t.”  It’s flat, impatient, and enough to push Prompto into looking at him again.   _ Okay, still not any less weird _ .

“Prompto!  It’s, uh, it’s Prompto.”  He blinks to  _ hulk _ and back.  “Yours?  Your names, I mean, what are they?”

Though the flatness and iciness of  _ not hulk _ seems to crumble at that, brows rising in a surprise that  _ Prompto can’t forget painting before what the hell _ , and those eyes seem to be studying him.  He’s not entirely sure he prefers this to the nothing from earlier, not when he fears being visually picked apart.

But  _ hulk _ doesn’t provide much solace, instead seizing  _ not hulk _ by the arm and shoving him away, following the staggering guy.  “I think it’s time we head off, kid.  Pleasure meeting you and Tiny, and we’ll see you around maybe.”

Fortunately Tiny stays by his side as, “Right,” falls in a confused mumble from his lips; as gracefully as  _ hulk _ stood, his departure’s far from that.

This is a new level of weird.

* * *

He has lunch with Cindy in celebration of the exposition opening later, even though he’s sure the nerves are devouring his stomach, and Prompto decides to not mention the events of his outing with Tiny to her.  His stress levels are already through the roof, and it’s probably nothing anyway; plus any way of framing it would sound downright bizarre.   _ Hey, yeah, Cindy, you know that guy from those paintings you’re always commenting about?  Yeah, I think I saw him at the park today with this other guy.  Talked to them, mostly the other guy, but they left before I could get their names.  Funny, huh _ ?

No, thank you.  It doesn’t exactly sound like the ideal of stories.

So he’ll keep it to himself for now, at least how it stands.  That and he has far more pressing matters at hand, such as not flopping like a fish at his exposition and attempting to eat the bagel before him.  It smells good and taunts his stomach, but nausea and irreparable dry mouth hold it tantalizingly just out of reach.  He’ll take a bite anyway, chew it longer than would normally be needed.  Then again, even if it isn’t a complete success, he just needs to make some connections and garner some interest.

That’ll make it successful enough, right?

_ And the sooner it’s done the sooner it’s done _ .

He’s so screwed, but he’s made it this far; it’ll be okay.   _ It’ll be okay _ , he repeats to himself silently as he forces a swallow.

_ The sooner it’s done the sooner it’s done _ .

“Didja get to talk to Jared yet about Talcott’s little doodad?  The stuffie or something or another?” inquires she after a sip of her juice, and Prompto’s thankful for the distraction - purposeful or not.

But likely purposeful.

“Yeah.  He still doesn’t know how he managed to rip it up that badly - unless it got into a fight with an  _ actual  _ cactus.  Never really know with that guy.”  It won’t be the same as before, not with the telltale ribs of tears sewn shut, but it’ll be useable again.  Though maybe he won’t be adverse to patchworking the holes; he’ll have to ask when they talk again.

“The boy’s getting rowdier and rowdier, I tell ya,” sighs Cindy with a fond shake of her head, and Prompto hums in agreement.  She takes a moment to let the conversation come to a full stop and allow him another small bite of bagel, and then she leans forward across the table conspiratorially.  Her voice drops to match, bright green eyes trained on him.  “Listen, I gotta ask a huge favor of ya, and you’re the only person I can ask with you meeting him before and all.”

“Met who?”  Prompto mirrors her through bagel, bends forward.  “What’s up?”

“Dino Ghiranze.  I wanna see if he’ll take a commission or if I can pull a few strings.  You know how that goes.”

If Prompto’s surprised it’s because he’d been expecting something a bit, well, more than that, so he nods without an ounce more of hesitation.  “Yeah, I can see if I can put him in contact with you.  Put in a good word, too.  What’re you thinking?”

And Cindy lights up with a grin and shifts in her seat.  “Thanks, hun.  Knew I could count on you.”  She sips at her juice.  “There’s a piece I’ve been wantin’ to get for a while, and his style is perfect.  You know that ol’ picture Paw Paw has lyin’ around?  The one with him and the boys?”

Prompto nods because  _ yes _ he knows that picture, and  _ yes _ he knows all the stories that go with it by heart.  From moving to Insomnia to now he’s heard the stories without fail, and his adoptive father would don a gaze that, while seemingly hard and exasperated, held fondness and nostalgia - and occasionally he’d chime in with a correction which would send Cid off on a digression or another.

That’s when they’d hear something new.

“That one?”

Cindy nods.  “Mhm.  Just with a hint of their tall tales, too, not too much.  You know how Ghiranze does those tongue and cheek pieces.  Somethin’ like that.”

Prompto’s chuckling, grinning, and it sounds perfect to him.

“Like with the frogs, right?”

* * *

_ The sooner it’s done the sooner it’s done. _

The exhibition comes sooner, and Prompto wants nothing more than to sink into the ground and exist no more.  The Astrals, though, seem to detest the plan with his feet remaining firmly  _ on top _ of the flooring.

Screw them, too.

Cindy’s saying something, probably about controlling his breathing or something; he doesn’t really know.  It’s a kind hearted and well intentioned gesture, but it’s really not helping at the moment, and he inhales, deep, closes his eyes.

And then he exhales.

Okay, maybe that did help slightly.

“Yeah, nothing like  _ not being able to breathe _ to add some excitement to your day.”  The air’s hot and sticky from the people, strong from the expensive perfume, musty from the sheer age of the building, and his tie’s an unfamiliar and relenting presence about his neck; once this thing’s over he’ll be free from it, vowing never to don the infernal article again (even though he knows full well that won’t be true at all).  He feels, frankly, as though he’s inhaling soup through a straw, sometimes getting a piece of chicken or noodle stuck in it, but from this there’s no escape.

From the people.

Gods, he needs another flute of champagne or  _ something _ if he’s going to survive the night.  Maybe two.

Despite his dramatics, though, Cindy’s unconvinced with an, “Aw, hush now.  You’ve worked your darn butt of to get in here, so no use blowing it on opening night.”

He’s able to snag a champagne from a server with a muttered thanks, and he returns his attention to her with a wry snort.  “Blowing?  Kinda requires breathing there, Cindy.”  The carbonation and alcohol bite at his tongue, which is nice, but he thinks he’ll need something stronger by the end of the evening.

Unless the ground decides to finally open up for him, but the floor’s already expressed its unwillingness to the idea.

So he’s sure he has something at home.

“And you’ve been doing that for the past twenty three years.”

That’s enough to pull a hearty laugh from Prompto.

“Oh, hush you.  That’s not what I meant and you know it.  Now go on out there, woo their pants off, and make Paw Paw and me proud.  If ya need anything, I won’t wander too far off, okay?  Now go art.”

Thankfully while the floor seems to have it out for him, time doesn’t; it seems to speed up as he finds himself sufficiently and comfortably buzzed and uninhibited in talking about the intricacies and processes of his work.  Perhaps it’s the alcohol running through him, perhaps it’s his own drunken and intoxicating love of his work (and he’s simply high on the event), or perhaps, he wonders, it’s a mix of both.  His hands work as he speaks, and Prompto’s grateful he has no more flutes able to slosh over to a patron’s chagrin (though he’d be satisfied with it as a slight to the floor), and the frequent nod dots his answers.

_ Yes, he used this technique. _

_ No, that one wouldn’t have achieved the effect he wanted. _

_ Yes, it’s this sort of canvas. _

_ No, that one wouldn’t have been right for the project. _

_ Yes, it’s part of a larger set, and no, some of the pieces aren’t displayed here or online. _

But there’s a man, bless this weird ass day, who approaches him as he simply breathes the soupy air again after a barrage of questions and people, and suddenly Prompto wishes nothing more than for the crowd again.  The man’s the pinnacle of finesse and refinery in a place that touts just that, from immaculately ironed attire to how stiffly and properly he stands, and he may as well be screaming  _ don’t fuck this up or else your career’s fucked _ .

So Prompto swallows and braces himself.

May the gods forgive him for any slight in his past twenty three years against him.

“I cannot help but confess to have eavesdropped, Mr. Argentum,” he begins and, naturally, strikes fear into the very core of the artist, and he feels his stomach sink away at how meticulously this man speaks and his accent:  _ he’s from Tenebrae. _

_ He’s here. _

_ What is he doing here _ ?

“And for that I must apologize.  However, I couldn’t help but be curious: your painting  _ Insomnia _ , you have others in this series, do you not?”

He nods, a sole gesture he can trust himself to (because you can’t screw up a nod), not that it’s terribly incriminating information; it’s mentioned in his portfolio with few pieces accompanying.

“Brilliant.  Might I ask your inspiration for them?”  It’d been a segway question, right, and the stranger taps a  _ gloved _ finger along the flute he holds.  He can’t die or be robbed here; there are too many people.

“Yeah.  Yeah, sure.  It’s nothing really special, actually.  Sometimes I just get pictures I  _ have _ to get out, and they sort of create themselves, you know?  But sometimes I get dreams about them, and then you have to get those down on paper,  _ or canvas _ , too, before you forget.”

The stranger lets out something akin to a hum in acknowledgment, or perhaps it’s thought; Prompto hasn’t the foggiest about this mystery of a man.  Nonetheless he speaks again.  “If I were interested in purchasing a piece from you, assuming you do accept transactions, might I be able to see more pieces from your series?”

Prompto blinks at him.  Already?  “I can’t really promise you anything with those, but, look, I’d be happy to give you a card that’ll give you the site to my portfolio.  I have a few up with other works, but I’ve gotten kind of attached to those.  They’re more personal paintings instead of - meant for anything.  Can’t tell ya why, but,” he shrugs, “they’ve grown on me.  They feel like they tell a story, you know?  And it’d be like selling a chapter to a book before you finish it.”

The logical answer would be to say  _ yes, absolutely _ and have rent paid for the month, he thinks as he presses his lips into a thin line and procures a card from his jacket pocket.

“Anything in here you can ask about.  Those - I can’t make any promises, sorry.”

He offers a regretful smile, an apology, as the man takes the card and skims it, pockets it.

“Yes, I do think that is quite understandable and would be sufficient, and it does have your contact information.”

Prompto nods and wrings his hands before him, rubs at the base of his thumb.  “Yep.  Website, email, phone, everything.  Website even has a  _ contact us _ page.”

And despite his clumsy response, the stranger seems immensely pleased - and Prompto’s proud of himself for being able to read that at least.   _ Score.   _ “Perfect.  Would you mind terribly if I asked you a more personal question, Mr. Argentum?”

“Uhh, sure?  I mean no; go ahead.  Fire away.”  Negative score.

“You tell me they’re nothing special and then that you’ve become attached to them.  Why?”

Prompto blinks and his mouth works for an answer before his voice cracks to life.  “It’s kinda hard to explain.  Like I said, I’ve only painted them for myself and never for  _ here _ except  _ Insomnia _ , so they’re never really done or polished, but there’s something about ‘em.  Like they’re trying to tell me something, and it’d feel almost,” what’s the word, “ _ invasive _ to put most of them here.  Sounds crazy, huh?”

The stranger slips him a small smile, which shouldn’t surprise Prompto as much as it does; the guy  _ does _ smile.  “Not at all.  It’s not unheard of for artists to turn to their respective media to make sense of the world or themselves, which I presume the case with you.  Anyway, as I am quite interested in your work, I will be contacting you in due time to discuss arrangements.”

“Uhh, yeah, sure.  Thank you,  _ Mister _ -”  Had he given him a name?

Though the man doesn’t seem offended, rather amused if nothing else.  “Scientia, and I wish you a fair rest of the evening, Mr. Argentum.”

“You as well, Mr. Scientia.  Thank you again, and enjoy your time here.”

And at last he can finally catch that breath.

Prompto does catch glimpses of Mr. Scientia throughout the rest of the night, and he’d be lying if he were to deny keeping tabs on him, even as the event dwindles to a close, though at some point he filters out through the doors with the rest of the attendees.  Or at least he hopes because, aside from Cindy and some staff, the place is empty.  He helps clean up some, but the evergoing drain of the gallery sapped the talkative energy from him to where he wants nothing more than to sleep or not think.  Just let him close his eyes for a second, and though he doubts he can fall asleep standing, it’s much more optimal than the floor (that’s betrayed him).  Instead, as Cindy catches him, he’s ushered from the venue with a, “You did swell tonight, hun.  Go get some rest, and I’ll see ya in the mornin’.  You can help out tomorrow.”

There’s little room to argue, though, so he’ll simply nod.  Few people win arguments against her, and since Prompto’s not one of them even when the odds are stacked in his favor, he’s quite literally kicked to the curb.  So with his messenger bag across his shoulder and jacket zipped up, he buries his chin into its collar and trudges forward.  The streets are filled with the stragglers returning home from a later shift and those taking advantage of the early and relatively calmer hours of Insomnia’s nightlife, and so he slips easily into the stream of pedestrian traffic.

Home’s not far, a half hour walk on the slowest of days, and actually enjoys it.  Unlike walks with Tiny where he’s smiling and laughing after her, times like now he’s able to see people in their lives.  A couple leaning into each other as they joke about, a person rushing after a taxi home, friends considering where to stop next.  It’s a different setting, a different walk, and it makes him wish he has his camera with him.

When he stops with a pool of people waiting to cross the street, cars zipping and blaring past in a cacophony of horn and running engine, he’s cataloguing the people about him when someone stands out across the street.

_ Literally _ .

The first thing that runs through his head is  _ what the hell _ ? as Mr. Scientia stands alongside none other than, low and behold,  _ hulk  _ and  _ not hulk _ , and they appear to be in rather deep conversation.  Or at least Mr. Scientia and  _ hulk _ do;  _ not hulk _ seems a bit too preoccupied with his phone to care.

_ What the frick _ ? is the second, not unlike the first, as it feels as though ice is being pumped through his veins.  Meeting  _ dream guy _ is a coincidence because, yeah, yeah, somewhere in the world there’s someone like him; that much Prompto’s well aware.  But to see him  _ meeting up with and talking to Mr. Scientia  _ spells out something more than a coincidence, even though he isn’t quite sure how  _ hulk _ fits into that picture.

_ What the heck _ ? is the third as he concocts the  _ brilliant _ plan to cross the street to confront them.  And by confront he means something along the lines of a nonconfrontational  _ hey _ that’ll certainly merit an answer or awkward introductions as they realize they’ve all met him.

Perfect.  There’s absolutely nothing that can go wrong.

Except  _ hulk _ , the fucking tower that he is, spotting him as the crossing light at long last turns green and nods in his direction.  At first Prompto thinks it’s acknowledgement and a satisfactory response, adding a hastened skip to his step to hop on over there, but the other two sets of eyes land on him.

And  _ ding dong he is wrong _ , and it makes his day irredeemably weirder.

_ Not hulk slash dream guy _ easily slips into whatever traces of a crowd is left on the sidewalk, but he’s smaller and indescript, so Prompto doubts he’ll have a chance of finding him again without assuredly losing either of the other two (much to his dismay).

_ Mr. Scientia _ , thanks to his taller stature and practically glistening from prestineness under the street lights, takes a bit longer to disappear, but he does so by a sharp turn and slipping into an alleyway.  That much, especially with how high end he holds himself, Prompto has to give him props for; those things are sketchy, and he’s not wandering is scrawny butt in any of them at night.

_ Hulk _ , however, merely uses his size to work his way through the crowd Prompto has to weave and excuse himself through, so he has speed and momentum and  _ size _ on his side - and judging by how fit the man is, he has endurance on his side, too.

He thinks once more, and rather profoundly as he draws to a stop on the sidewalk,  _ what the hell _ ?

So his hope that this is all just mere coincidence is obliterated.  Go figure.

* * *

When Prompto returns home he takes no time in collapsing on his bed, his muscles screaming in delight at finally doing  _ nothing _ , and sleep pulls heavily at his eyelids.  The events of the day, though, keep his mind afloat and barely in consciousness.  Even Tiny, warm and nestled alongside him, does little to sooth his anxious head.

So he’ll do what he always does.

He’ll paint.  With a whine of protest from Tiny, though she’ll stay in her nest of blanket, he’ll draw himself from bed to usher out the dying minutes of night and in the birthing early minutes of morning.  Prompto will paint strands of feathered hair, paint vague and ominous silhouettes onto the irises of the man, and he’ll wonder who they are.

He’ll wonder who the men from the day are, and he reestablishes that, despite how similar they appear,  _ dream guy _ and  _ not hulk _ are two distinct people.

_ Dream guy _ is someone happier, someone tragic, someone he’s learning, even if now his eyes are brimming with distrust.

Even if now the part of him wanting to smooth out the lines of worry hums, through the vibrations of his phone, in agreement.


	2. Dust or Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few quick notes before we get going with chapter two:  
> \- Sorry this was longer than the hopeful one week timeline. I had this mostly written for a while and never quite got around to _revising_ it.  
>  \- I've aged down Talcott. He's a small child.  
> \- I've decided to give Prompto _a_ parental figure. I considered and wanted to make his dad Cor in the beginning of the fic, but I was forced away from that continuity-wise. So he's just a sweet old man who likes to garden.  
>  -I fear I haven't made this apparent enough, but this is totally au. Past, present, future, all.  
> -We _will_ be actually meeting Noctis next chapter, and that will be an adventure, plus seeing more of Gladio. I should update tags for that. And then the plot will really get moving either that one or in four.
> 
> I think that's what I wanted to mention in regards to that. Oh, and I'm also considering maintaining a playlist for this, especially since this fic is pretty song-driven beside the one, and I was wondering if anyone would be interested in it being public? Plus if you have songs along the way, I'd love to hear about them, too.
> 
> Anyway, we're off!

_ Though the stars shine bright above them the fire cuts through the dark they cannot, not without the moon to kiss the land and see.  Yet they’re so much brighter than the city lights, something otherworldly and misfitting for this, which only overwhelm and blot them out, flickering and twinkling far, far away.  It’s how distanced he feels from the blur of movements about him, the time, the voices burbling as if submerged in water, and somehow he doesn’t feel endangered.  Rather he’s at ease, at  _ home _ , and a laugh dances from his throat at something. _

_ One of the voices.  Of course it’s to one of them. _

_ And despite the dropping temperature of the night air, despite the obliviousness of what was actually  _ said _ , he feels a warmth kindling within him. _

_ This. _

_ This is nice ; this is safe _ .

_ But this he won’t remember come waking _ .

* * *

Prompto had fallen asleep at four in the morning.

Or so he thinks it’s four in the morning, but clocks are pesky things that lie sometimes; time can’t possibly move that quickly.  Or that slowly.  Whichever.

Not that he can really muster the morning energy to care as he staggers into the kitchen as if sleep clung to his ankles still, and it damn near tripped him over his own feet.   _ Sleep’s pesky, too, _ he supposes as he fills Tiny’s bowl, the sound of kibble ringing through the apartment like a  _ food siren _ blaring.  Sure enough, she comes skidding into the kitchen and ready to devour the awful smelling food as if it were gourmet.

How she does it is beyond him.

But the food’s supposed to be good for her, recommended highly by the vet, so he’ll sneak her a morsel of chicken later or something  _ actually _ tasty.

Not that she’ll inhale it any differently,  _ pesky dog _ .  But he loves her with all his heart, so it’s nothing but a small sacrifice in the grand scheme of things.

He watches her a moment longer, pleased and baffled still at the merry crunching away, before crumpling the bag closed again and shoving it back in the pantry.  And since  _ he _ needs food, too, and something he can actually stomach in the dawning ours, he pulls out a spoon and pours a bowl of cereal.   _ Human kibble _ .

He snorts into his  _ human kibble _ and thanks the astrals he hadn’t yet chomped down on it - a fleck making its way up the back of his throat wouldn’t have been ideal.  Sending his gratitude high to the astrals once more, because you can never kiss their asses too much, Prompto decides it’s probably also time he checks his phone.

A few texts from Cindy and another from his father (who he notes to call back) await him - and a phone call from Mr. Izunia, and fortunately for Prompto he seems to have left a voicemail.  So he hits that play button and waits for it to crackle to life.

Or to his death.

He can’t help but think that the voice is like white chocolate: it seems nice at first, but the more you bite into it, the sicklier and sweeter it gets until you can’t handle it anymore.  Plus you’re not entirely sure it really  _ is  _ chocolate.  He can near feel the nausea from the message alone, and he wants nothing more than to cut it short and forget the man ever existed, but he pays handsomely and gave Prompto the boost to the showing.

He’s one of the primary reasons the starving artist isn’t a  _ starving artist _ .

And still he isn’t safe.

Nonetheless he hunkers down and puts up with this off putting man, because there’s no actual or concrete reason to dislike him.

With the beep he stills in his crunching on his cereal long enough to listen.

“ _ Hello, Mr. Argentum.  I pray your first night went smoothly, and I woe to ask this of you while you must be so busy. _ ”  Of course he doesn’t  _ woe _ , but he doesn’t say anything - not that Mr. Izunia can hear him - instead opting for a prolific eyeroll.  “ _ You see, I have a project I would so like to commission from you, and I would love to discuss the details with you in person if you would be so kind.  Please call me back and congratulations _ .”

So return Mr. Izunia’s call as soon as he’s ready for the day added to the list.  He sends off a quick text to Cindy as he takes another bite of his cereal, chewing on it thoughtfully (he really isn’t looking forward to that talk), and calls his dad.  Prompto’s swallowing as he picks up, and he puts him on speaker as he continues to eat.  Phone on the counter, son leaned against the surface.

“Hey, kid.”

At that voice Prompto perks up, any sign of the sliminess dripping from him with the last washed away with a grin.   _ He’s clean, he’s free, he’s clean -----  for now _ .

“Hey, Dad.  I got your text,” informs he and then shovels another a spoonful into his mouth.  Of course he’s seen it, but contentment’s clutching him and refusing to release him; Prompto doesn’t mind.  His dad, however, ever the  _ before the sun rises  _ waker, is probably already doing astrals knows what outside.  The following  _ thank you _ is through that mouthful of breakfast.

“It’s not everyday your son has some fancy gallery.  I’m just sorry I couldn’t make it-”

Prompto cuts him off, not unkindly.  “Hey, it’s not like you had a choice.  You know how those things are, and you would have had to leave as soon as you got there.  Plus I wouldn’t be there  _ anyway  _ if it weren’t for you.”

He hears a sigh, one sounding far too unconvinced for his liking, and as long as his father lets it go for the time being, he’ll leave it be.  Just don’t fight him on it.  “I’m proud of you, Prompto.”

And it’s in times like these that Prompto feels happiest, and there’s a smile alight upon his lips and brimming in his eyes, and  _ gods _ he hopes his father knows they’re there.  He should at least, he’s raised Prompto since he was twelve, and he’s the best thing that’s happened to the kid.

“Thanks, Dad.”  It’s a simple two words, but it means more than the statement, than the exhibit, and he means every bit of them.  “It was good.  It was really good.”

He doesn’t know where he’d be without him, and he’s fearful of the possibilities.  Gods, he’s fearful of his first twelve years, but things looked up for him.

For once the astrals smiled at his insignificant speck of a self.

And he hopes he can stay in their graces enough to keep this.  Just please let him have this, and he’ll continue kissing their asses.  “Anyway, you told me you were finally going to plant those snapdragons.  Did you get around to ‘em yet, or are they still in those seed packets?”

“Did them a week ago.  I’d send you pictures, and I know you,” and it seems he does because Prompto  _ predictably _ parted his lips to request some, “but they haven’t popped up yet.  You’d be getting dirt pictures.”

Prompto laughs, and it dances in his voices as he teases.  “Yeah, please don’t send me  _ dirty _ pictures.  Save those for ---  actually just don’t mention ‘em.”

And his old man groans and chuckles alongside him, though he draws quiet for a moment.  “Ou know, I’d like to have you over sometime.  Maybe a weekend.  You can see the garden and tell me how the exhibition went and how the city’s treating you.”

His father can’t see it, not this either, but he nods.  “Yeah, I’d like that.”  A pause.  “Hey, there’s a celebration this weekend, y’know, with Insomnia cutting ties with Niflheim.  It’s s’posed to be big, and there’ll be fireworks.  And then we could go home after.  Stay for a few days.”

Maybe it’s what he needs after yesterday and the stress of the exhibition, time with his dad, and Tiny would appreciate a yard to run about in as she pleases.

Though he appreciates the proximity and liveliness of the city, especially in the enthusiasm of the celebrations, there’s a charm and serenity of the outskirts he misses.

And he misses his dad’s non-cereal breakfasts.

And he’s safe.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

* * *

Today he runs with Tiny.  After washing his bowl and checking his email they embark from the apartment with the wind at their backs and the fresh air pushing a spring into each step, and he anticipates the sheer high afterward - a boost to really get him going for that day and bring his spirits up.  Put his best foot forward so to say.  When he’s running, after all, he’s leaving his worries and anxieties in the  _ dust _ , and they can eat it, too.

It’s early enough that most people are still asleep, save those oddballs like his dad (and himself, despite his late night), so there are few people on the move in the neighborhood.  It’s the perfect Friday morning for the jog.  Fewer bodies to maneuver around, fewer people to worry about Tiny with (even though she’s in doggy bliss just from the run and fun as it is; it’s always a game to her), and there’s a less stifling and cooler air that simply lets his feet pump against the ground.

And he runs for the next thirty minutes, stopping at a vending machine to allow his legs and lungs a reprieve enough to purchase a bottle of water.  Prompto drinks some heartily, the water cold in his heated body and so  _ nice _ , and he crouches down to offer some to his fearless companion of a dog.

She laps at the trickle of water for all she’s worth, barely allowing a drop to touch the concrete.  Naturally, especially with how long they’ve been in this ritual, and she’s  _ doggone _ hot, too.

He strokes her head, which elicits a wag of her tail, and then he pushes his own dampening hair off his sweater and gross forehead as he stands.  Prompto wrinkles his nose at the wet.   _ Ew _ , but there’s a promise of a shower at the end of this to wipe away any and all accumulated sweat and grime.

The only downfall if you ask him.

So he inhales, deep, because it feels good and refreshing, and he hoists his hands high in the air to stretch those muscles in his arms, back, legs, and then he’ll bend forward to really reach into the depths of his legs.

And it feels  _ fantastic _ .

When he rights himself again and rolls his shoulders to release whatever tension may reside there, he’s off again with Tiny.  The bottle’s empty in his hands, depleted between the two of them so it’s not sloshing about, but he’s to drop it in the recycling bin back home.

Though on his way back he hears a call to him, and it brings him to a halt on the sidewalk and searching for the source of the voice; with Tiny at his side, he doesn’t dare wear headphones.  They’re not before him, not across the street,  _ ah _ , behind him he comes, panting as he races.  Red begins to blot his cheeks, and vaguely Prompto wonders if he hadn’t heard the kid for a few calls out to him.

His grandpa trailing behind at a leisurely and unconcerned walk suggests otherwise, which eases his worry somewhat.  Perhaps it’d just been his excitement.

“Talcott!”  Prompto greets with a wave of his hand, Tiny with one of her own with her tail; even cross species, they fall in sync apparently.  “How’re ya doing, kid?  Heard your cactus -”

“ _ Cactuar _ ,” Talcott corrects with a very pointed frown.   _ There’s a difference between the two, geez _ , it seems to say, and Prompto has to admit he’s right.

There are varying levels of sentience at the very least.  Have to give cactuars that.

Since the point is quite clear and uncontestable, the kid is smart after all, PRompto raises his hands in surrender.  “ _ Cactuar _ \- sorry about that.  Heard your cactuar got into a fisticuff with -  _ something _ .  Never heard  _ what  _ now that I think about it, just that he needs a bit of a TLC.”

“Yeah.”  It sounds remorseful, but there’s an undercurrent of pride buzzing in there about to explode, adn it does as his eyes light up like two little bulbs on a holiday.  “But you should’ve seen him, Prom!  He kicked some major butt!  Man, that Ray Jack never stood a chance against a  _ cactuar _ !”

There’s a huff of a laugh as Jared draws to a stop behind his grandson, plops a hand on his shoulder to keep the darn kid from vibrating or gesticulating out of his shoes.

Prompto’s witnessed that.

Granted Talcott was in  _ Jared’s _ shoes, and the shoes were untied, and that’s completely beside the point.

Maybe Prompto should see about getting him to play with Tiny some more; wear them both out at the same time.

“If we knew we were going to run into you, we would have brought it with us,” Jared says not regretfully, rather more observantly.  Amusedly.

Prompto just shrugs in response; there’s no way he could’ve predicted the future, and there’ll be plenty of times to make the exchange soon enough.  “It’s no big deal.  Just send the  _ cactuar _ ,” he emphasizes that word much to Talcott’s pleasure, “over whenever you can.  He’ll be as good as new!”

“And maybe grandpa can give you some of the cookies we made yesterday!  Right, grandpa?” the kid chirps.

“Whoa, don’t get ahead of yourself!  You’re not going to have any left if you keep offering them to everyone!”  he’s entertained and proud, and the emotions crinkle around his eyes, but he returns to Prompto.  “Of course, if he wants to make some as a thank you, I certainly won’t  _ oppose _ .”

“No need, really.  Just let me borrow that recipe sometime -”

The laugh is from his gut, in good humor, and Prompto knows that as farfetched as the hope had been, his attempt at swiping that recipe is once again  _ thwarted _ .  “Not a chance, kid.  You’re sneaky, but not sneaky enough.”

So Prompto grins and shrugs.  “Hey, it was worth a shot at least.”  Tiny paws at his sock, tearing his attention from the serendipitous duo, and he pats her head.   _ Yes, yes, they should probably finish their run and get back and ready for the day _ .

So he looks back up to them as his smile turns to something of an apology.  “She’s getting restless, sorry.  See you around, right?  And you can stop by anytime to drop off the  _ cactuar _ , and I’ll have it back  _ asap _ .”

“Then you best get her back before she wears a hole through your sock.”  Prompto hums in agreement, though he’s unable to respond much more before Jared begins again.  “Also make sure you’re keeping an eye on the news, kid.  Something doesn’t feel right.  I don’t know what, but I don’t like it.”

The blond inhales and nods, furrows his brows as he takes in the warning, lips thinning into a line.  Of course he keeps up with the news, but he’ll have to be all the more vigilant.

And from Jared’s sudden serious turn, he doesn’t like the looks of it either.

_ Shit _ .

Jared and Talcott are safe, but Prompto’s dead certain that whatever Jared’s referring to isn’t.

* * *

It isn’t safe as the TV blasts a little louder than it should have at first, thanks channel volume discrepancies, and he mutes it; he has a phone call to make to his over invested patron, and he can catch the headlines in the meantime.  If anything really manages to snag his attention once the commercials are over and there’s no longer dancing hamsters on the screen, well, there’s the internet for that.

He can look it up afterward; bless technology.

Bless technology more when he only needs to press a button to hear the ringtone on the line, and he tucks the phone between his ear and his shoulder.  Once, twice, thrice it rings, and he wonders (read: hopes desperately) that it will lead straight to voicemail.

No such luck.  Of course.

The sickly sweet voice oozes from his phone like sludge, and he resists the urge to drop it and scrub his shoulder clean.  But, because he’s much more professional than that, he’s going to resist that urge until the call’s over.

He is mature.

“Mr. Argentum.  I am truly pleased to hear back from you.”

“Mr. Izunia, I got your message.  If you want to schedule a consultation I can grab my calendar -”

“Come now, Mr. Argentum, there is no need for that.  This one I’m allowing a little more -  _ freedom _ .  I will send specifications via email at my earliest convenience, for documentation and referential purposes, and I do hope it will be enough to work with.”

Then why call him?  Why have him call  _ back _ ?

_ Because he has you under his thumb and he knows it, and he wants you to know it, too _ .

Maybe he does have reasons to dislike this guy after all.  Prompto’s lips are pressed into a thin line that  _ thank the astrals _ the other can’t see through the phone - though he wouldn’t put it past Mr. Izunia - but he parts them long enough to reply.  “I will wait for your email, and I will contact you if I have any questions.”

Which likely won’t arrive within the next day, a lack of professionalism on Mr. Izunia’s part and yet a display that he  _ can in fact do that _ .

Fucking hell.

“That’s a good lad.  As it is I have other matters I must attend to.  Mr. Argentum, do take care.”

With that the line’s dead before he can  _ politely _ return the courtesy, and he lets the phone drop from his shoulder, slips down along his chest to catch it.

Not that it really matters.  Let it shatter to the ground and let him have an untainted phone.

But of course it buzzes to life with an unknown number.

_ Fantastic _ .

As he answers it his eyes rise to the television once more.   _ Liberation Day Preparations under Way _

“Hello?  Prompto Argentum speaking.”  Of course Prompto knows this; everyone in the city knows this, but he assumes it’s updates on the progress and further kindling the undercurrent of excitement in the air.

It seems too good to be true.

_ Keep an eye on the news _ .

He bites the inside of his lip.

“Mr. Argentum, this is Scientia.  Ignis Scientia from your showing last night.”

He promptly stops gnawing on his lip and blinks.  Okay, so he hadn’t exactly been expecting  _ Mr. Fancy Tenebrae _ to actually  _ call _ when he’d given him his contact information, but there he is.

On the line.

Shit, what’s he supposed to do?   _ Say _ ?

“Mr. Scientia!  What can I do for you?”

_ Did that sound too chipper _ ? he wonders with a grimace, but there’s a chuckle that puts him somewhat at ease again.  Though he’s still not sure what to make of him yet.  There’s something about the other that feels comfortable and familiar, and yet there’s another part that’s intimidating and almost terrifying.

Maybe it’s the accent.

“I was curious if you would discuss your work further with me.  I am still quite interested.”

Or maybe it’s that he feels like this fancy guy will realize he’s really not in the league of what he’s probably looking for and turn elsewhere and mention the  _ horrors  _ of a young artist past.

Or maybe it’s that he can finally get answers on what  _ the hell happened last night _ and  _ why the one guy looks eerily like the one he paints _ .  Then again, what would they know of what goes on in Prompto’s ever running mind?  Just of the nature of the actual physical manifestation of his artistic fixation.

“Yeah, uh, sure.  Do you have any days you’d be free?”  Where’s his calendar?  He should’ve grabbed it anyway.

“Actually, I was hoping you would be available today.  Perhaps over lunch.”

_ Today.  Perhaps over lunch _ .

He has nothing planned, sure, but that’s too soon.  Much too soon.  Plus he has the second evening of the gallery later and Tiny to take out and a weekend to maybe finish planning.

So naturally he acquiesces.

“Uh, yeah, I can do lunch.  Where?”

He blinks to the TV again, something to train his gaze and attention to.   _ Terms with Niflheim Provoke _

Sure, they’d managed to negotiate their sovereignty, but they’re still very much under NIflheim’s control still.  What with the gradual relinquishing of administrative control, the continued economic reliance, and the constant threat of intervention should they ever go against the empire’s wishes.  Really, it’ll just  _ on paper _ that they’re free.

And though it’s a step if nothing else, of course people aren’t happy.

“There’s a place called  _ Pit Stop Diner _ .  Perhaps you’ve heard of it.”

Prompto snorts.  Not the most proper of responses nor the most polite, but he receives no flack or offense from it.  “Takka knows me better than I like to admit.”

“Fantastic.  Would one be a suitable time?”  He sounds amused, so Prompto hasn’t entirely botched this whole conversation, and that’ll allow enough time for a shower and some work from his computer.

Or maybe heed Jared’s advice a bit more.

Or mentally prepare himself for  _ whatever’s going to happen during this conversation _ .

“One works, yeah.”

“Perfect.  Thank you, Mr. Argentum -”

“Prompto.”  He’s never cared for those formalities, much less directed at  _ him _ ; they seem stuffy, impersonal, and stifling, and this doesn’t seem to be a piece that fits into the puzle between them.  “Please call me Prompto.”

“ _ Prompto _ .  I will see you then.”

“Bye.”

The line dies, and Prompto sighs long and hard.  Last night the man met the other two, and maybe now he can get some answers.

Gods, he hopes so.

* * *

_ The sooner it’s done the sooner it’s done _ .

Prompto swears he’s more nervous than he’d been at the exhibition the night before as he shifts in his booth.  Usually it’s comfortable (or comfortable  _ enough _ ); usually he’s content to sketch away in the perhaps a bit outdated diner and plan out paintings to pass his time.  Now, however, the chairs are too hard, curving at the wrong angles, and there’s this  _ thing _ that keeps digging into his back that hadn’t been there before.  Or had it?

He’s pretty sure he’d have noticed it before if so, so he’s certain the chair’s been sabotaged.

Or maybe the mug of coffee he’d consumed at home after his shower  _ and _ the one he’s currently working on are just exacerbating his nerves.  It could be that, too, especially since that post-run high had been near obliterated at home.

Thanks, Mr. Izunia.  Thanks, his life.

_ At least the coffee tastes good _ , or at least that’s what he tells himself to convince whoever’s listening that ordering one is justifiable.  Which it is.  It tastes good.

He’s too busy with his internal debate about the merits of the coffee to notice the figure slipping into the booth across from his until a polite  _ excuse me _ rips him from it with a jump.

_ Right _ , he’s suddenly meeting Mr. Scientia, and he’s already damn near spilled his coffee everywhere.

The potential buyer interested in his weird dreamy paintings, and one of three who booked it from him last night.   _ He still doesn’t know why _ , and the fact that he’s meeting him  _ now _ baffles the shit out of him.   _ If nothing else _ , he reassures himself as he eyes the bizarre and intimidating stranger,  _ we’re in a public space.  It’s not like he can do anything. _

_ Right? _

Then again, he’s from Tenebrae.  He can probably book it back home or wiggle himself out of a pinch like that as if he were slathered in soap and launching himself down a slip ‘n slide, and somehow that image makes him  _ slightly _ less terrifying.

Good for Prompto.

“You, uh, you wanted to talk, Mr. Scientia?” he starts carefully, or as carefully as restarting a sentence with a potential client can be.   _ Way to smoothly open this _ .

Not that he’s just a client.

Prompto has those questions - if he can muster the courage, tact, and opportunity to ask them.  How does one even ask about the whole situation?   _ Yes, I’m drawing your friend who I’ve  _ never met before _ , but I did meet him in the park with another guy yesterday, and you happened to show up at my exhibition, but you three seem to know each other and ran away from me.  What gives _ ?

It sounds downright looney.

So he hides that uncertainty, that thought process, behind another sip of his coffee.  An extra point for pro-coffee side of his earlier debate.

“Indeed,  _ Prompto _ .  I conferred with my associates,” so that’s what he’s calling them:  _ associates _ ,”last night, and I was curious if you might show me some of your work.  I must admit I’m quite captivated with what I have had the fortune of seeing, and since we sympathize with your position on not selling any of them, we would like to speak about commissioning a pieces from you with a similar -” The man pauses.  The well spoken and  _ immaculate _ man pauses.  “-style and feel.”

Prompto blinks at him for a second, and then he nods.  Maybe if he can get answers after all,  _ not that this is anything more than coincidence _ , but if something is  _ there _ .  “Yeah, sure, okay.  I have one of my sketchbooks with me, and I use it to plan out some of my paintings, so we can start with that if you want to see anything  _ right now _ .”

“I would quite like to see it.”  Mr. Scientia seems genuinely pleased at the offer, which somehow surprises Prompto - which it  _ shouldn’t _ .  They’re there.  “I’m rather taken by an artist’s process, and it’s rare to be offered the steps along to the finished product.”

It somehow coaxes a bit of a smile from Prompto, a lopsided and less nervous thing, and the tension from his shoulders.  He can do this,  _ I can do this _ , and he twists over the side of his chair to rifle through his messenger bag.

When he returns upright with prize in hand, the smile grows a tiny bit, almost on the shy side (he’s about to bare his soul to a man he doesn’t know, but he’s realizing something about this  _ scary  _ man screams  _ safe _ \- which confuses Prompto more about him.  Seriously, what the heck?  But if it means  _ answers to a coincidence _ ).  Gently he places the pad on the table, rests his hands on top as he peeks back up to Ignis through his bangs.

_ He’s safe. _

_ Is he? _

_ Right? _

Prompto inhales, considering, contemplating, cringing as he decides definitively and pulls his hands from the top of the book.

He’s vulnerable in this moment, and Mr. Scientia seems perceptive to that - and for that he’s grateful.  He allows Prompto a second to change his mind, two, before hesitantly and gently reaching forward, not caring to actually  _ move _ the sketchbook from where it lays, and instead turning it so he may better see it.

Prompto tightens his lips into a flatter line, tilts his head forward a bit more to hide his eyes further behind those bangs, rubs at his wrists a bit more, anything to soothe those refiring nerves as Mr. Scientia carefully pries the cover open.

And he’s attentive of the protesting binding.

He’s like an entirely different and less imposing person than last night, than on the phone, than moments earlier.

_ He’s safe _ .

“Why?” he blurts, realizing he’s said that only  _ after _ it’s out.   _ Shit, shit, word, come back into his mouth. _

“Why what?” inquires Mr. Scientia, not looking up from a sketch - that one hadn’t made it to canvas - and treating it no less than the one before that  _ had _ .

Not that he knows.

“Yesterday.  You ran.  The three of you.”  As if that explains everything, but it is enough for Mr. Scientia to look up to him with a downward curve to his brow, to his lips.

“Yes, I suppose I did -  _ we  _ did.”  There’s no denying that, not when Prompto  _ watched it with his very eyes _ , so his response is a bit of a non-answer.  An acknowledgment.  Though when Mr. Scientia sighs, Prompto’s hopeful and optimistic, but that’s dashed as soon as it’s born.  “Though I regret that, while I sincerely wish I could, I can neither explain our reason or intent here nor now.  I do hope you understand.”

Of course Prompto doesn’t understand because he doesn’t have  _ context _ or  _ whatever inside knowledge they do _ , and he just wants to  _ know _ .  Gods, just let him  _ know _ , and he barely manages to suppress a groan of frustration.

Or maybe he lets it out.

He doesn’t really care either way because screw that.

“But you three know each other.”  Something else that’s undeniable.

“Yes, we do.”  And another non-answer, and Prompto’s fingers wind their way around his mug and grips it, something to keep his hands occupied.  Just fiddle with the handle, up and down, around, and feel how smooth it is.   _ That’s better _ .

“How?”

Mr. Scientia pauses.  “We - have a long history if you will.”

And it’s enough that Prompto reaches for his sketchbook, and Mr. Scientia undhands it as soon as movement is made toward it.  He flips through its pages, searching for one picture in particularly, and thrusts it back toward him.

If the finger he places on it is a bit more forceful than he’d have wanted, then so be it; it adds to the effect.

“ _ You know him _ .”

It’s happenstance.

Coincidence.

Nothing more.

Why the hell’s he asking this then?

“I swear to the astrals if you don’t give me  _ something _ of an answer I will walk out of here and you’ll have to find yourself another artist.”

Prompto allows for a few seconds to pass for dramatic effect and to be sure he’s really and truly drilling this point home to this stubborn and elusive man.

_ But he’s safe, right? _

“ _ Who.  Is.  He? _ ”

And Prompto’s bracing to snatch the book back up again and march right out of the diner, but Ignis’s voice takes on a calm and serene tone, almost resigned.  “I must warn you that I can only divulge you so much here where there may be prying ears, but I will answer your question as best I can.”

Prompto remains silent, instead raising his brows in a demand that Ignis continue.

“He is an old friend of mine - and of yours I presume - though I’m afraid you’ve not been in each other’s company for quite some time.  However,” pauses Mr. Scientia as his fingers hover over the page, just above the smudging of lead and careful not to touch, and directing his attention toward its title, “it does seem as though you know his name.”

“Noctis,” Prompto breathes, a whisper in his ear, and the air’s never tasted sweeter or lighter.  “The thing is - I don’t remember  _ him _ .  Not really.”  The flashes and dreams don’t really count, do they?  “I’m a shitty childhood friend, huh?”

Though that doesn’t explain why he’s painting him all grown up,  _ and they both know that _ .

He just needs an explanation that doesn’t sound batshit insane.

“I do apologize, but there is hardly more I can tell you where there may be prying ears.  Should you wish to continue this line of conversation, we must direct it to somewhere more - private.”

“Somewhere more private,” Prompto repeats.  Maybe he is going to die today after all, and by someone who shrieks  _ safe _ .

Maybe his  _ safe-o-meter  _ isn’t as functional as he’d hoped, especially now that it’s become abundantly clear the other isn’t sharing much in a location  _ he’d  _ suggested.

“Indeed.  My associates and I currently reside in a hotel room - we aren’t local - so that lends itself as an option, though that doesn’t seem terribly agreeable to you.”

And agreeable to him it is not from the set frown to the side eye.  No, he doesn’t quite trust being alone in a hotel room with three strangers to talk about  _ how he maybe knows one _ .

_ Because maybe this isn’t coincidence and they’re really actually long lost childhood friends or something _ .

Or just old classmates from college, even if that seems unlikely with his  _ Noctis _ -painting timeline.

“And I presume you would not be too fond, then, of the idea of us coming to yours.  Perhaps if there is a studio you frequent enough, and we could stop during opening or closing.”

Prompto doesn’t see how giving out his workplace is a good idea either, but at least it promises a bit more safety.  If nothing else, he can scream to a coworker and have that place monitored rather than his  _ home _ .

It’s the safest place for answers, and he pulls a napkin from its holder; it’s paper-y enough for this.  “I ---   _ suppose  _ that works.  Let me write down the address.”

“Brilliant.”

“Will the - will the other two be there?”  As he’s been assuming.

“I think that would be for the best, yes.”

_ Astrals help him _ .

* * *

The second night of the gallery goes without incident, and he finds himself not wanting to be eaten by the floor near as much; he partially wonders how much more of this is due to his own comfort and how much can be attributed to the betrayal of the night before.

Though he knows it to be the former, he’ll ascribe it to the latter nonetheless.

Of course.

And when he makes it home he shreds the fancy attire required for the evening and replaces them with sweatpants and a tank top.  Tiny’s passed out on the couch and barely twitches through all this, and his fingers are itching for a canvas again.

He doesn’t continue the one of  _ Noctis  _ that evening; this one’s unplanned.  It’s a scene this time, on a large canvas perched next to it.  Prompto begins with pencil, drawing in figure after figure, blurry detail after blurry detail, and in forms that seem much too archaic for all his other work.  The clear one’s in the middle with a hand stretched into the sky, high above their heads as if reaching toward the astrals.

He hopes they’ve smiled upon this man as they have Prompto.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys, thank you for making it this far. I have a few things to clear up and put out there before things really get going, and I'm going to do it grocery list style for simplicity's sake.
> 
> -I'm attempting an experimental writing style, and I'm hoping it's as effective and expressive as it is fun to write. Please let me know otherwise.
> 
> -I haven't decided endgame yet, but I am leaning in one direction more than the other right now. We'll see how things progress, though, and which will seem more natural, and I will definitely be taking your commentaries into account with this. I do promise, though, that either way all of them will be on amicable terms.
> 
> -I am open to suggestions for other pairings, but I can't make any promises.
> 
> -I am also wholeheartedly open to constructive criticism, so if you have anything you feel you need to mention, go ahead and post it below. Otherwise, if you really liked it or something in particular, those comments make me exorbitantly happy, too.
> 
> -This fic is inspired by, if you want to know (otherwise shield your eyes), 1000 Words from X-2, but it will deviate heavily from the game and song; the title is a nod to this.
> 
> -I will be trying for weekly updates, but we'll see how that goes.
> 
> I think that about covers it, and you can find me on tumblr as, you guessed it, movssee.


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